


Waking Up To Ass And Dust

by The_Magic_Tuba_Pixie



Series: New Spirit City (Humanized AU) [1]
Category: Bionicle - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Magic_Tuba_Pixie/pseuds/The_Magic_Tuba_Pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange hero washes up on the shore...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up To Ass And Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the opening cinematic for Toa Tahu (the Mata Nui arc, circa 2001 or whatever).

Waking Up To Ash And Dust  
(Alternatively titled: At What Point Does Using Lyrics As Fanfiction Titles Stop Being Ironic And Start Being Cool Again?)

  
I awoke in hot sand. The scalding, dry liquid embraced my body comfortably, I was loathe to remove myself from it, but I reluctantly sat up.  
I think that's how I got sand in my ass. I remember sitting up, experiencing the sensation, clenching a little, then looking down.  
' _Oh, hey, that's a nice dick. I guess that's my dick,_ ' were my first conscious, verbal thoughts on this island. They were followed by ' _Why am I naked?_ ' and a grin spread over my face. ' _I'll bet I got hella wasted and hella laid last night._ ' I nodded to myself, letting my lips spread wider apart.  
'T _oo bad I can't remember it._ ' The grin fell from my face. The wiser part of my consciousness began to speak. ' _I can't remember anything about last night._ '  
' _Then I guess I'll just have to imagine it,_ ' my labido chuckled through my mouth, albeit stupidly.  
' _No, wait, I can't remember anything. About ... anything._ ' I stopped imagining two warring entities in my mind and grasped at the seriousness at hand. ' _Who am I? What am I doing here? And why am I naked?'_ I looked around. I was facing an ocean, my bare feet a good distance from the tide. Had I been lying here long? Did the tide come up, and me with it? Is this low tide?  
I saved those questions for later as I turned my head. Beside me, there was a great cylinder, looked to be made out of some industrial ... stone? Metal? The orange rafts on the side had probably kept the capsule afloat, but they had since deflated and hung uselessly by the side. A dome-like structure nearby had probably capped the cylinder, and it lay a good few feet away. The pattern of sand around it suggested it had been forced off from the inside, at force. Yet a clean break...?  
My eyes followed the second set of imprints in the sand leading away from the cylinder. They looked to be stumbling footprints that ended where I lay.  
Scattered between the dome and me, there were small lumps of varying size and shape. Standing up, I inspected the nearest one, picking it up. I turned the red cloth over in my hands as I tried to get the sand off my back and out of my crack.  
"Boxer shorts?" I said out loud. So I can speak. That's good to know. I turned the shorts inside-out. There was a name inside, written in a sharp, not-very-neat handwriting. "Thomas Hunt," I read out loud. "That's a stupid name."  
I looked around. There seemed to be no one around me who jumped up at the sound of the name. I shrugged. "I guess I'll go by that for now." I swiped at my legs and butt again, trying to get the remaining sand off, then stepped into the shorts. They fit perfectly. 'My ass looks great in these,' I thought, turning around. 'Too bad no one is here to appreciate it.'  
I gathered up all the rest of the lumps, most of them clothes. I found some neat cargo pants, complete with, like, a billion pockets (' _great to store stuff in!_ ' I thought, even though I had no stuff to store), a worn-looking, faded red v-neck shirt which was a little too tight but I wore it, anyway, some bitchin' combat boots with red laces (why was that necessary? I must have done that on purpose. I guess red is my favorite color?), and a tactical vest with another billion pockets. Searching the two billion pockets on both resulted in nothing but ... ammo clips? I sniffed at them. Yup, they were ammo clips. And live ones, too. Does that mean...?  
I found the gun the clips probably went to in the shadow of the dome. It felt ... familliar in my hands. I immediately knew where to grab it, and, in picking it up, automatically checked the various spots on the rifle, looking for damage or residue. It was clean except for some sand. I swore softly as I began to dismantle the gun, using the dome as a workbench. I was able to wipe down and clean out the gun to the best of my ability, but I found something odd about the trigger: it didn't do anything. There was no hammer attached. I experimentally pulled the trigger; nothing happened. Why would I have a fully-working gun except for the trigger? And where did this ash on the dome come from?  
I wiped my finger along the inner edge of the dome. The black residue came off. As I sat there, pondering this, I let my eyes wander up the beach. My thoughts were turned to a red shape nearby that I had missed in my quest for clothes. I slung the useless rifle over my shoulder and went to inspect (the rifle was engraved on the side with the word "Firesword." What the Hell kind of name is that for a gun? Who did that?).  
My boots crunched up to the red shape in the sand. My hands shook a little as I bent down to pick it up (why was that?). The shape was bright red, not unlike my shirt, laces, and underwear. It was round at the top (with a vent) and curved down to two large holes that went all the way through (and some smaller ones, too, but they were probably for show). There was a round "0" shape in the bottom center. The longer I gazed at it, the more I felt like I knew exactly what it had to be. My breath came in quick, shallow gasps of anticipation as I raised it and nestled it into position.  
I was so lucky to have this bitchin' shoulder pauldron. I looked at it, fitted into place on my shoulder, and admired it. It only hindered my right arm's motion a little, but it looked cool enough that didn't matter. Now if only there was someone around to appreciate how cool I looked...  
Gazing up and down the beach again, I saw nothing but sand immediately. The ocean seemed to stretch on for miles in both directions with very little landmarks. The sand eventually turned into grass and little gnolls, and immediately behind them, there were some shapes that looked a lot like buildings. The sun was beginning to set by now, so I made my way towards the nearest of them.  
As I trudged up out of the white sand, I felt the earth change beneath my feet. It became darker, darker, until it was almost black. Flecks of grey sprung up into the air wherever my boots fell, and as I neared the shapes, I realized they weren't buildings. At least, not anymore. The burnt husks of houses gaped back at me as I passed the first few, moving out onto the street. What used to be a nice beachfront neighborhood was now a grey and black wasteland.  
I could see a larger silhouette in the distance, perhaps a city, so I made my way towards that, hoping that it had not befallen the same fate as the structures around me, hoping I was not too late.  
(Too late for what? What happened here? And why do I care?)  
As I marched through the abandoned street, I couldn't help but notice the deep claw marks in the asphalt here and there, the upturned debris, and the walls that had fallen not because of flames, but because of a large force. It looked like a warzone. A warzone lost.  
Night marched on me as I marched on the city in the distance, and I was thankful for the odd streetlamp that still worked, but I knew to not rely on them, as they were few and far between. As night fell, colors began to muddy, and I wasn't sure if I was encroaching upon unburnt territory or not, but the ragged scars in the concrete remained constant.  
I clambered up a small shack at one point, peering out across the forest of burnt telephone poles and crumbling spires of empty houses and businesses. I could see the warm amber glow of civilization nearby, but couldn't make out much motion. I decided to head that direction as I dropped down, and changed my course accordingly.  
By now, the streetlamps were almost entirely broken and I trudged on in the darkness. If it had been during the day, perhaps I would have seen the trip wire. But, alas, it wasn't, so I hadn't, and I was kind of freaked out when this spiky cage thing suddenly erupted from the earth around me. I swore virulently and backpedaled, only to bump into the back end of aforementioned spike cage thing. I guess my rifle had flailed about and hit my hands because the next thing I knew, I was in the assault position, spraying bullets at the bases of the makeshift cage. They must have been constructed out of old, dry wood, because my bullets tore through the bars like a hot sword through a primitive trap.  
I would have torn through the freaky motherfuckers with masks who came rushing at me next, too, if they hadn't suddenly stopped and this old dude hadn't come hobbling up. He had this weird, elongated mask on and a walking stick that was about as tall as he was with ... fire at the tip? Like, not real fire but a carving of fire, which I thought was kind of dumb, but he carried it around like it was he coolest shit, so I didn't say anything.  
"My sincerest apologies, sir," he had said, raising his mask off his face. He had a trim grey goatee that dangled past his chin a ways that he had worked his equally grey fu man chu mustache into, and he smiled when he saw me. Then he did something weird: he bowed.  
I wasn't really sure how to react, and, by the initial looks, the freaky mask bros didn't, either, but they followed the old dude's lead and removed their masks and bowed.  
Before I could do anything, the old dude straightened up. "I am Vincent Carmichael, the Turaga of Ta-Koro."  
"...those aren't real words." I may have lost my memory, but I remember how to communicate with actual words.  
The old dude just smiled (maybe he was senile?). "They are what we call parts of our lives and the residing elders of the sectors of New Spirit City. And you," he said, bumping me with his stupid fire stick, "Are Thomas Hunt, the Toa of Fire. You are here to save us."


End file.
